


Two Moons

by Aewin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Kinda but not really), AO3 1 Million, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Dystopia, Homestuck Shipping World Cup, M/M, Mutual Penetration, Necrophilia, Revolution, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/pseuds/Aewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Signless is long-dead, and the Psiioniic served Her Imperious Condescension as a helmsman until rescued by the Disciple and her army of revolutionaries. During the rescue, he slew the Condesce by crushing her in her own jewelry, earning him the nickname “The Golden Mage.” Now, he serves as mage to Meulin’s court-in-exile and protects the city of New Beforus. The burden his powers place on him is heavy, but they are not solely a weight on his shoulders; when both moons are full in the sky, his powers allow him to be with his beloved once more.<br/>----<br/>Written for Round 2 of the Homestuck Shipping World Cup, 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Moons

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! I've been sitting on this one for a while, poking and prodding at it, and I finally decided I liked it enough as-is to post. Just in time too; it's the year-and-a-day anniversary of my first Homestuck fic, so we can consider this a renewed vow between me and my writing. It's also the day of AO3's millionth post, and I can say I'm proud that this is fic #17 towards that number.
> 
> I wrote this for Team Suffpsii's round 2 entry in the Homestuck Shipping World Cup (2013), and the prompt was to take several genres and blend them. So this is not your usual fic from me. It blends revolution, magic, and smut into one compact little package. There's a lot of worldbuilding behind the scenes, because gosh did I fall in love with this little AU. I have a stash of ideas and history set aside for this, so you might see more of it out of me someday.

You’re already waiting at the eastern gate, pacing with nervous anticipation and breathing the crisp evening air, when the bells toll the opening of the gates. One hour only, then closed until dawn. A group of early risers passes you, pointing at the gold on your robes and giggling, and you sigh to yourself. It’s definitely time to get going, before more people wake up and start to stare.

Your fingertips trail lightly against the rough stone of the archway, strengthening the wards as you leave; the wall is a still-new addition, built with old, worn materials, but it will hold until the empire falls or your power falters. The shield ripples with opalescence when you step through, and once you’re on the other side you take to the air.

You could have done this earlier, of course, as soon as the sun set. But the entire principle of the city is equality, and it wouldn’t do for the empress-in-exile’s favored mage to be seen openly flaunting laws as if his position in the court put him above all the rest. No, you’re not like that. You were a slave once— _twice_ —and can well remember the highbloods’ haughty displays of superiority. You no longer live in meek subservience, and neither do the people of New Beforus. But there are still so many who haven’t found their way here, so many that haven’t heard of the revolution, so many that don’t understand what it means to be free. And until the empire falls—and it _will_ fall, you have glimpsed that much, though you do not know the price to be paid—there will be little rest to be had in _any_ city on Alternia.

Tonight is one of those rare nights of bliss, a chance to rest and forget who you are now, a chance to remember who you were when this revolution began. The moons are both rising in the sky, full and powerful, bright enough to keep many people indoors tonight due to ancient, irrational fears. Such superstitious folly works in your favor on nights like these, and you’re able to reach the tucked-away lake without seeing a single person on your path. Moonlight glints on the dark water, and the trees on the cliffside swish as you breeze past them in search of the Signless’s longest-lasting childhood home, seeking the cluster of rocks that marks his resting place.

Ah, there. You shift the boulder aside with your psionics and kick the debris around the entrance away. There was a ladder here once. It’s long-since rotted, but it’s not an inconvenience; if anything it’s a blessing, since the depth of the cave presents a formidable obstacle for most intruders—intruders being anyone other than you, Disciple, or Dolorosa, but Meulin’s busy running an opposition government and you still haven’t _found_ Porrim, so in truth, you should really be the only person to come here. A puff of dust kicks up when you drop yourself the final few feet, and you have to brace yourself against the wall to cough it out, your eyes watering.

When you’re recovered enough to concentrate, you spread light to the crystal orbs and common gems that have been nestled into crags of rock and hung from the ceiling in rope nets, smiling to yourself at the memory of Porrim’s ecstatic face when she realized she could replace the stuffy, sooty torches and keep the place much cleaner. The orbs spark with tiny lights that grow as you focus, and the room is soon lit in a soft glow. This place has a near-magical ability to seem like a proper home even when abandoned for sweeps. The tightly-knit rugs have held up over time, and they whisper softly when the hem of your robe brushes over them. You turn the corner and there he is, tucked between pallet and blankets as if he was sleeping. (He’s not. He never will again.)

You sit on the floor beside him, adjusting your robe and pants for comfort. His hand is cold as you grasp it and draw a shimmering glyph in the air above him, an ancient symbol left to you by your Ancestor; it sinks to his chest and hums, radiating warmth that spreads in sparkling lines and soaks into his skin, enveloping him in a purplish haze of your power. Now, you wait. This isn’t the hard part—the hard part is always leaving him again—but it seems to take an eternity every time you do it. So you fidget with the ties on your robe, run your thumb over his slowly-warming hand, and run your gaze over his pale but beautiful features. Anything to pass the time as the spell of stasis lifts.

[ ](http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=2ms52qw&s=5#.Uv_i0vldXwk)

_Art by[Lucretiainferno](http://thesparkofrevolution.tumblr.com/)_.

Finally, you feel the tug at your power that indicates you can move on with the ritual. You take a deep breath to steel yourself—this isn’t as bizarre as it was the first time, but it’s still a bit unusual—and then you take _another_ deep breath, for him, and lean down to press your lips to his. They’re warm and pliable, but no air escapes his mouth, no pulse beats in his veins. Those, you must provide. You pull at a delicate thread of magic and carefully breathe life back into him, imagining all of the things he’s forgotten, gifting them back to him for this one night.

The beating of a heart. The rhythmic intake of breath. The movement of clever fingers. The sharpness of mind. The voice of a prophet. Compassion, charm, his strange notion of love. Each small detail brings him closer to who he was, and closer to you.

Arms wrap around you as you recall the curves of his smile. He pulls you onto him and sighs contentedly before transforming the ritual into a proper kiss, deep and deliberate and dreamy. Even after all this time, your hands still reach instinctively to tangle into his hair and nestle him against you protectively. The world was cruel to you both, but in this you found refuge and safety, a forged bond that time and distance and even death cannot break. He breaks away after a moment, and you can feel the movement of his lips against yours.

“Hey. Missed you.” He opens his eyes, filling your vision with vivid, off-spectrum red.

You exhale shakily, relieved but overwhelmed. “I miss you every night, KK.”

Ah, _there’s_ that smile that you love so much.

“I would say I’d miss you every night if I could, but if I could we wouldn’t have that problem, hmm?” He’s still got that tantalizing lilt to his voice, so efficient at driving you mad.

You nudge your cheek into his, playfully nuzzling against him.

“Don’t be an ass, my _love._ ” You’ll never miss a chance to tease him about “love.”

“As long as you aren’t, _honey_.” Just like he’ll never miss a chance to tease you about the _incident_.

“Oh, that is _it_ , I don’t have to take that kind of lip from you.”

He leans up and seizes your lower lip with his teeth. “Then how about this kind of lip?”

You shudder a bit at the sting as he withdraws. He knows your weaknesses.

“I’d say that kind of lip will let you get away with _entirely_ too much.”

He tightens his grip around your torso and rolls with you, flipping your positions.

“Excellent,” he purrs. “Because there’s a _lot_ I’d like to get away with tonight.”

He crushes his lips to yours, passionate and wild. His calloused hands are everywhere at once, untying your robe and relearning territory he’s already marked a thousand times; tickling up your ribcage, thumbing over your jawline, rubbing at the base of a horn until you arch toward him with need.

“Race you at getting each other’s clothes off,” he grins. “Winner gets bragging rights!” He fingers his symbol on your robe thoughtfully before pushing it through the buttonhole, and wastes no time in moving on to your ties.

“That’s not fucking fair, your pants alone would take me five minutes to get off.” That’s not even an exaggeration—from this position there’s barely any room to work on them. But that doesn’t stop your hands from darting in between you and working at the first silver button. Of about ten. Fuck these things, you really should have protested when Porrim let him design his own clothes.

“I seem to remember it taking about thirty seconds our first time, you blushing virgin, you.” He’s got your outer ties open now, and hoists himself up so he can unwrap the robe. You have to act fast to keep your hands on his buttons.

You roll your eyes, but it’s true—your first time together was spontaneous and shameless, a stolen moment when the girls were gone, quick and frantic and desperate. It’s not always that way, now that there’s nobody around to intrude. “Who the hell are you going to brag to anyways? _I_ seem to remember that _you’re_ sort of _dead_.”

He sticks his tongue out. “You, of course. It will irk you to no end, and _I’ll_ know I’ve won. Besides, you’re more fun when you’re all feisty.” He mock-growls at you as you succeed in undoing button four.

“Don’t make me shoosh-pap you back into stasis.”

“Heh.” He works on your inner ties and grinds down into you, which is distracting as _fuck_ because his bulge is out and writhing against you through his pants. That’s _it_. Time to stop playing nice. You pull steadily at the thread of magic binding him to life, and he slows as if submerged in thick honey, his eyes widening with surprise. You smirk at him, and work your way up to seven before his hands reach the waistband of the pleated pants you wear under your robe. It’s an absurd sort of hilarious to feel his bulge wriggling in slow motion.

…aaaand ten. You release the magic, and he dives into action on your pants, but he’s too late—you’ve shoved his as far down his hips as they’ll go in this position.

“I win.”

He sighs, but keeps working at your clothes. “I’m all about equality, and that wasn’t fair.”

“Ha, like there’s anything fair about those pants. Normal people have one button. I have two because it’s my thing. But you, you have to have _ten_ , look at me, I’m the Signless, I’m so special with my pretty red blood and my pants that basically just bulgeblock me!”

He laughs deeply, his upper body shaking with the force of it. “Now, now. I know you, there’s no danger of my bulge being blocked with you around. If I was wearing armor that was riveted on, you’d just slip your psionics under it and make me squirm.”

“I would, yeah, and you’d _love_ it.” It’s kind of a fun thought, actually. Maybe you’ll surprise him someday.

He lifts himself up to shimmy his pants off, pressing light kisses to your belly, and and begins to work yours off as well. You raise your hips for him, and they slide off easily. He crawls up a bit and mouths teasingly at your bulge as you shrug your untied robe off and try to remember if his mouth has always been this searing-hot. The desperate hunger of sweeps spent without him surges through you again with every arc of pleasure he sends through your nerves. You _need_ , and you need _now_.

You push him off with a gasp and get on your knees to trace your tongue over the shell of his ear. You know _his_ weak spots as well as he knows yours, and damned if you aren’t going to use them to press him into action. Your bulges twist together and he _moans_ , drawn-out and low, making your breath quicken and your nook pulse in anticipation. You fall back into a sitting position and drag him into your lap, and you spread your legs around each other. He drags you into a rough kiss, hand darting down to coax your bulge into him.

He’s tight and hot and wet and _living_ , alive and entwined with you for this one frozen moment in time. It’s precious; you live for these moments, moments when you’re reminded that he’s not just the long-dead figurehead for a revolution that’s falling into ruins, but the imperfect man that you mostly pity, and sometimes hate, and maybe even love. You shift to give him better access to your nook, and he slips inside with a moan against your neck. It’s all instinctual at this point, a thousand and one ways to please each other that happen without conscious input, making it easier to focus on the smoothness of his skin under your scarred hands, the salt-sting taste of sweat dripping from his hair, and the perfection-jarring scar from his deathblow.

His arms wrap tightly around you, and you rock against each other in barely-synchronized waves. He coils lazily inside you, flexing and filling you in deep, powerful strokes—all the passion and zeal of a martyr, freely given to you as you pour every bit of yourself back into him. His claws dig raised marks into your back and it’s nearly too much for you. Sweeps as a ship conditioned you to sensations far outside the norm, and you screamed and sobbed when they cut you down from the helmsblock, each light, careful touch a knife’s twisted stab into tender skin. You haven’t had many opportunities to adjust to this particular sort of sensory input since you were rescued.

And he _knows_ that, uses it to his advantage when he’s with you, burns lines of fire over your flesh and bites at your lip until you’re breaking apart for him. He purrs and nuzzles his nubby horns into your neck, and it sets off something fierce inside of you, a flushed urge to protect him, to stand between him and the world and make up for the one time you failed to do just that. A growl spills from your throat and you claim him as yours, lifting him into your lap and gripping him close against you, pushing deeply into him, rending his back with possessive marks that will take hundreds of sweeps to heal at the slow rate he “lives” now.

He seems taken aback by your ferocity for a split second and then throws himself into it with the force of a hurricane, matching you scratch for scratch, stroke for stroke, and kiss by kiss. He supports himself with arms around your shoulders, fingers clenched and digging into you, and uses the leverage to grind his hips down onto you in rough, powerful circles. You shudder when his bulge brushes against your globes.

“Aa—almost—nghh, so fucking _close_.”

A satisfied expression spreads over his face and he leans in, brushing his lips against your ear.

“Let go for me.”

Yes, _yes_ , you _will_ , and you _do_ , crying out and clenching around him, twisting into him and letting go in long, agonizing pulses as he throws his head back and moans. His vivid eyes snap open and meet yours in a flash of smoldering red before he bites his lip and throbs inside of you in thrashing waves. He doesn’t spill much material, but it’s probably just as well. He never held with pails, even before death, seeing them as a symbol of the empress’s oppressive dominance.

His hands release their bruising grip, and he lets himself fall back and rest on his arms. You’re both panting heavily, but you press forward for one final, bruising kiss before the moment passes you by, twining your fingers with his and sharing a single nearly-breathless breath until your chest burns with a need for air. Only then do you let yourself break away and collapse against him, wet with sweat and genetic material. You lay there listening to his heartbeat until he groans and pushes at you.

“I really hope you thought to bring a towel, because my legs are about to glue themselves together.”

You did, in fact, remember to bring a towel. You pluck delicately at one of the threads that passes into the ether, and a towel falls unceremoniously over his face. He pouts at you for only a moment before smiling at your amused laughter. The dirty towel gets tossed into a corner in a manner that would have pissed Porrim off to no end. You’re about to say as much, but he speaks first.

“Will you take me up?” There’s a wistful look on his face that makes you reconsider your urge to say no. It’s dangerous with the new empress’s drones sniffing about, but you do it for him from time to time because what’s once-in-a-two-moon life without a few risks? You sigh, and nod.

“Get some clothes on. If we have to run from drones I’d prefer we not be naked.”

And that’s how you find yourself levitating the “savior of Alternia” out of a hole in the ground, and depositing him on the grassy hillside to huddle under a thick blanket and watch the stars. His hand squeezes around yours, and his burn scars brush against the ugly, purple helmscars on your arms, making you shiver at the reminder of shared pain. Time passes silently, and you contemplate how your life has been nothing at all like you’d ever imagined.

“How’s Meulin?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts. You tense, and you can tell he noticed, because he shoots you a meaningful look, the implied meaning clear: _be honest_.

You choose your words carefully. “She’s… _old_ , Kankri, even when my powers are considered. I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be our leader.”

He ponders solemnly for a moment. “What will happen once she’s gone? Will you take over?”

You laugh, before you realize he’s serious. “No, I won’t! I’m not cut out for that. I’m not a charming leader—” you elbow him in the ribcage, “— _or_ a fierce warrior. I’m a too-dangerous weapon that’s been misused and manipulated into following this thing as it becomes something _other_ than what you wanted. Want. I’ll wear Meulin’s stupid golden robes, if she thinks it means something to someone. I’ll support the city. I’ll keep them safe, even if they gape at me and whisper about the glorious Golden Mage as I pass. But I won’t lead this diseased _thing_ that the cause has become.”

His lips press together tightly, but he nods, letting go of your hand and rolling onto his side. “So be it. A leader that does not wish to lead can be surprisingly effective, but you have been through more than your share of pain for this rebellion. Who will lead, then, do you think?”

You groan and rub at your eyes with your palms. “The fucking seadweller asshole, probably. Ugh. Sometimes I regret killing Her Imperious Ostentatiousness, because _he_ wouldn’t have joined us if I hadn’t. Let me tell you, you should be glad you died, because he’d be whispering in _your_ ear, all _go on the offensive!_ and _build a goddamn castle!_ and _parade your mage around in robes so tacky and bright that he probably serves as a fucking honing beacon for the empire! Get more seadwellers! Build a moat! Rustle up a spy network! Steal a mother grub!_ It’s enough to drive _me_ up the walls, and I was a hunk of meat strapped into a ship for sweeps upon sweeps!” You shake your head, frustrated.

He looks bemused. “Did they really? Steal a mother grub, I mean.”

You nod. “But we only have one jadeblood. She’s trying to teach others how to take care of it, but it’s hard, dangerous work in the sun for non-jades, even in thick robes.”

“Well if that was the seadweller’s idea he can’t be all bad. I mean, it’s a good idea.”

A bit of your magic sparks angrily between your horns, and you grit your teeth to get it under control. “No, he’s not all bad. In fact, he could be wonderful by dint of simply _going away_. One of these days I’m going to lose it and fling him on his ass back onto one of his precious ships.”

Kankri grins at you. “Sounds like someone has a blackcrush.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You did not. No. Nope. No way. I can only hate _you_ , and even then, only when you say stupid shit like that.”

“Haha, right. Well, I say we let the two of you go at it. By the time you’re done one-upping each other, the empire will have been overthrown as a mere side effect.”

You growl, and he laughs, and the rest of the night passes in much the same manner—banter, gossip, and closeness. You make risky love under the stars, slow and appreciative and intimate, before the moons sink low in the sky and you have to usher him back inside.

He dies in your arms, not for the last time, the last breath you were able to give him slipping away with the light of the moons. You shakily press a drop of sopor to your tongue before wrapping around his cold form, and remind yourself to wipe the tears from his chest before you leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that I have a [tumblr](http://solluxisms.tumblr.com) page full of wriggling bulges and amusing tags for your perusal.


End file.
